


A Fever You Can’t Ignore

by alifetime



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sad Richie Tozier, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 13:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14106306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifetime/pseuds/alifetime
Summary: warnings: eating disorder/child neglect/child abuseAfter a fainting spell in the hallway, Stanley takes Richie home for a small dinner date. (bonus: hot chocolate!!)





	A Fever You Can’t Ignore

Stanley watched Richie with unease. It was lunch, and what laid in front of everyone else, did not lay in front of Richie. Hadn’t any of them noticed? Or maybe Stan was being a little too worried for Richie. He knows for a fact Richie sometimes goes days without eating anything, and it worries him to no end. This was only because Richie’s parents didn’t care enough to feed him. After Stan felt the outline of Richie’s ribs once (they were more predominant than usual) he forced Richie to have dinner with him and his parents. Him and his parents stared at Richie as the other boy scoffed all his food down, seemingly not being able to get enough of it. 

At this very moment, Richie has yet to say a word to the group. He came over, sat in his usual place between Eddie and Bill and ... and just sat there. And as Stan was sitting opposite him, he avoided all eye contact. Richie knew that if he looked into Stan’s eyes, he would feel too guilty. Stan never knew why Richie had the need to feel guilty—none of it was his fault. 

“Want one of my cookies, Richie?” Ben’s quiet voice interrupted Stan’s thoughts.

He watched carefully. 

“Nah.” Richie shook his head, curls flying everywhere. “You keep it, Benny-Boy. Not mine to take. 

Something was definitely up. Richie never declined food whatsoever. By now he would be greadily maducating that cookie down with all he had, not caring for his dignity. Now he sat still, cold and pale. Ben gave Stan a look and Stan nodded, an indication of: _“I will deal with him later.”_

So after school when they were all gathering their bikes, Stan happened to notice again that the last bike there had not been taken—Richie’s.

“Anyone seen Richie?” he asked, loud enough for all of them to hear.

A dead silence tore the group. Stan tensed. Whenever one of them wasn’t in line of sight for more than a second, they all automatically panic. It was just a natural reaction from the thing that happened a couple of years before. 

“N-not since S-ss-Spanish,” Bill said after a moment of silence. 

Each looked around. Stan saw Beverly’s clutches on the handlebars of her bike, knuckles turning a deathly white. Stan always appreciated the worry Beverly has for Richie—no one really took care of Richie, not that it was any of the Losers fault. Even Stan didn’t take much care of Richie, and he always felt guilty the next day when seeing a new-found bruise on his face, neck, or bare arms. Maybe his glasses were tapped up a little more, a small crack in the corner. His eyes would be red from lack of sleep, or crying, or just both. Stan would love to hold Richie but ... Richie _does_ push them away. So when this happens, Beverly’s the one to always go to him, and it seems as if Richie opens up to the girl the most, as they both have experience with abusive parents. 

“I’ll go,” Stan volunteered. They all looked at him, rather shocked. Again, Stan felt guilty. Out of everyone in the group, Stan seemed to dislike Richie the most. “You guys go on ahead. I can find him.”

Beverly looked ready to intervene, but Ben put a hand on her shoulder. He gave her the famous kind-smile, but this smile was special—specially for her. This relaxed Beverly a bit and she nodded stiffly at Stan. 

“Make sure he’s okay?” said Eddie, already on his bike. 

“I will,” said Stan. “He’s probably having a smoke or something. You know what he’s like.”

“That kid loves a routine,” Mike said lightly. 

“Yeah, a routine of his own.” Beverly rolled her eyes, but a fond spread across her lips. 

“W-we’ll see you later, S-Stan,” said Bill, smiling himself. 

The others cycled off, and Stan made sure to check his bike was once again locked until wandering off to find the missing boy.

Stan checked first in the most logical place, which was round the back of the school. This is where Beverly and Richie came to skip class and smoke, maybe smoke some weed or just a normal cigarette. Richie had joked to Eddie once him and Beverly were rushed with Speed once, and Eddie nearly killed him. 

The other boy was not here. Heart now above it’s normal rate, Stan trailed inside of the school and went to the next best place; the boys lockers room. Why the boys lockers room? It was because this is where the Bowers Gang loved to pick on Richie the most. The amount of times Richie had been locked in lockers or had his head flushed down the toilet ... Most of the time the Losers would find Richie huddled up in the corner after having a brutal beating from them 

A couple of years back, Stan remembers him, Bill and Eddie were casually eating their lunch when they heard the commotion come from the other side of the playground. Bowers was beating up Richie, yet again. Stan had scoffed, telling Bill and Eddie that the boy deserved it. And in some way, the curly-haired boy was asking for it—he was constantly trying to patronise the Bowers Gang up in some way. Most of the time he would just get dragged to the floor for no reason, but other times, Richie seriously took the piss. And Stan deemed him an idiot.

That day Henry Bowers had beaten Richie until he cried. Stan thinks that’s the last time he had seen Richie in his most vulnerable state—he had heard from Bill about him seeing his own ‘Missing’ poster, and how much Richie had freaked out, but he was not there; thus he never saw the panic in Richie's eyes or hear the silent cry for help in his voice. Stan didn’t even think Richie was capable of panicking—he was too carefree. 

It seemed eerily quiet in the changing rooms when no one was around. And neither was Richie. No one huddled in the corner. No quiet taps to the lockers to indicate anyone was trapped in them. And no Richie in the bathroom, trying his best to dry his curls with the filthy, school towels to rid of evidence that he had just had his head dunked down a toilet. 

Sighing, Stan walked out again. He checked the many classrooms he past. He even checked a couple of staff rooms, which even Richie wouldn’t dare enter. He honestly didn’t know where else to go. But he wanted to impress his friends. They had talked about him being a little more patient with Richie, so he’s trying. Hence the reason why he wanted to do this. It wasn’t really for Richie’s sake at all. 

But as he was walking down the hallway of many other grey lockers, ready to head outside and take his bike, he changed his mind when deciding not to look for Richie for the boys own sake. 

There Richie was. He was on the cold, polished floors of the hallway. His glasses askew on his face. His face was turned to the side with his arms out in front of him, lying on his stomach. But it was an awkward angle. Almost as if someone had pushed him but he hadn’t been bothered to stand back up.

“Richie?” Stan called. When he got no response. Stan walked a little faster towards the fallen boy. “Richie?” Still no answer. As Stan leaned down, careful not to put his bare hands on the floor, he came to the shocking realisation of Richie’s situation. The boy’s breathing was ragged, wheezing almost as if he was having trouble breathing. It reminded him of when Eddie still had his inhaler and he would wheeze when anxious or on the verge of a panic attack.

Stan laid a hand on Richie’s shoulder and found he was shaking.  “Richie, wake up...” Stan didn’t know what to do. Had he fainted? He obviously had. But why? Stan mentally scolded himself. Should he really by asking that question? He knew why the boy had fainted. “Dammit, Richie...”

Carefully, Stan stood beside Richie so they were both facing the same way and put his hands under Richie’s arms. Worryingly easily, Stan picked Richie up and managed to to hold him and bring him into bridal style within Stan’s own arms. _He should not be this light_ , thought Stan. _I can hardly give Eddie a piggyback ride without getting tired._

Richie’s bag wasn’t anywhere in sight, so Stan was left to wander whether Bowers had gotten Richie after all, and had dumped his bag in the rubbish bins anywhere. But Stan couldn’t find the energy to look now—what mattered most to him in this moment was getting Richie home and into something warm, maybe make him a hot chocolate with loads of mini marshmallows and a mountain of whipped-cream, just how the younger liked it. 

On the way out, Stan decided it would be best to walk home. He lived only ten minutes away, and though he would not be able to carry Richie all the way (he may be light, but he still weighed a ton). He could try waking Richie up for him to place Richie on his back, making the job easier.

As he past his bike, he stared worriedly at it, wanting so desperately to check that not only his was locked again, but to check Richie’s. It took Richie so many lawn mower jobs to pay for that bike, since he was getting tired of riding double with Bill all the time, and once he had gotten it, Richie treated it like his baby. He even locked it. But Stan shook his head, not letting his silly OCD get in the way of knowing whether his friend was okay or not. Richie had locked it—he was sure of it. 

It took longer than expected to get home. Turns out Stan could carry Richie all the way home. Ignoring the odd glances he received from strangers was hard. But with Richie laying limply in his arms from possible lack of nutrition, he pushed himself, despite the ache in his arms, and the weight of his backpack from the many books he also carried, he still pushed himself until he reached the front door of his home.

His mother was home. When he arrived at the front door, ready to knock on it with his foot, the door came flying open and a very worried looking Mrs. Uris stood there. As it looked like her son was about to also collapse, she quickly but gently took Richie from Stan’s weak arms. To Stan it seemed strange seeing his own mother hold one of his friends like that. The Uris’ always enjoyed Richie’s company, as their own son was quiet and reserved. Having a little Richie around was always a pleasure for a while. But one would eventually have enough of Richie, which made Stan feel even more ashamed. 

“Stan, sweetie, can you close the door behind you?” his mother asked. 

He nodded and quietly closed the door. He then followed his mother to the living room where she laid Richie down on one of their comfy sofas. Richie didn’t stir, which worried Stan even more. His mother raised her hand and placed it over his forehead, tucking the curls away. Then she used her fingers to trace his neck until she met at his pulse. Stan stood rigid. A million thoughts seemingly going through his head as of then. 

“His pulse is there,” said Mrs. Uris. “He’ll be fine.” 

Stan let himself relax. 

“Can we make him some dinner?” Stan asked. When his mother gave him a look, he carried on: “He doesn’t get fed at home, Ma. He wasn’t even eating anything at lunch, and when we offered him food, he would not take it. I’m scared.”

Mrs. Uris creased her eyebrow more and looked back at the sleeping boy on the sofa. “I’ll make the both of you dinner. Your father and I are out tonight.” She stood up and kissed him on the forehead. She gave him a small, pained smile. “Look after him, sweetie.” 

“I will, Ma,” said Stan. And he meant it. No way was he leaving Richie until that boy was stable enough to even walk. 

Stan doesn’t know how long he sat there. He even brought a few study books down to distract himself for a while. Judging by the lovely smell of his mum’s cooking, it had been over an hour. After a while, as Stan had just finished his English homework, there was movement beside his head. Stan jumped and threw his book down, not caring for now when the loose papers went everywhere. He sat on his knees, looking desperately at Richie. Stan had long taken off his glasses, and Stan couldn’t help but admire Richie when he slept. When Richie was asleep he looked so calm, and peaceful. Freckles that dotted his face made him look oh-so innocent. Stan’s not attracted to boys, but Richie is cute. 

“Richie?” 

A small whimper left his mouth, which Stan never thought he would hear from the smaller boy. 

“Richie.” Stan reached over and shook him gently. The other slowly opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again. “Hey, you need some water don’t you?”

Richie could only muster a small nod before Stan was up on his feet in no time. His mother gave him a questioning look when he burst into the kitchen, grabbed a cup and filled it with water. Then she quickly understood and followed Stan out of the kitchen as he zoomed back into the living room. There, Stan lifted Richie up a little and as soon as the cup was placed at Richie’s lips, he thirstily drank the pure, cold water in the cup. Mrs. Uris came over and helped by placing a hand at the back of Richie’s head, supporting him. Within seconds the water was gone, and the gasps of breath that Richie let out indicated he had gone too long without water. Mrs. Uris laid his head back down gently and absently stroked her hand through his dark, greasy hair. 

“Thank you...” Richie managed to crack out, smile aimed at Stan and Mrs. Uris.  

“Bless you, sweetheart,” Mrs. Uris mumbled and got up. “Dinner will be ready within the next half an hour, okay?” 

“Okay, Ma,” replied Stan. 

“Okay...” said Richie weakly.

There was a moment of tense silence. Only the sound of Richie’s wheezing and the once in a while clutter from the kitchen was heard. Finally, Stan spoke up—there is always a first for everything. 

“What happened back there, Richie?” he asked as gently as he could. He may be quiet and shy, but he was never good at being soft with anyone—especially Richie. 

“Geez Stanley, don’t sound so worried,” Richie let out a light laugh. “Just overheated, ya’ know? Derry’s summers are getting warmer—"

“You know what I mean, ass-hole,” Stan bit at him. 

Richie’s smile disappeared and Stan felt immediately guilty.

“Richie, I’m sorry—"

“No, stop,” Richie interrupted. He lifted himself up and when Stan went to help him, he shook him off dismissively. He looked pale and sick—it worried Stan even more. He eventually managed to get into a comfortable position with his back against the arm chair of the sofa, legs still spread out in an exhausted manner. Another silence took a hold of the living room. Stan didn’t want to speak again. He wanted to hear what Richie had to say. It seemed as if Richie got bored, since he spoke again: “Your Mom doesn’t have to give me any dinner ... I’ll grab myself some when I get back home.” 

“Bullshit.” Stan couldn’t help but snap. He could finally get a grip of the situation at hand now. It was no secret between them all that Richie was underfed at home. Some days he would even go without food for days at a time, the longest had been a week. Never had Stan thought Richie was encouraging it. 

“Bullshit?” Richie said, trying to sound annoyed. He failed pathetically. “What do you mean? Why would I lie?”

“Yeah?” Stan sat up a little more so he could actually try and intimidate Richie. Maybe forcing this boy into submission was the only way to get through to him. “Why would you lie, Richie? We’ve been friends since we were barley talking, so what I don’t understand is that why you would lie when you say you’re not hungry. Why you would lie about grabbing some dinner when you get back home. Why, Richie? Why are you not eating?”

That seemed to do the trick; Richie bowed his head in shame, turning a deep shade of red. Stan would wait for an answer this time; despite his and Richie’s ‘feud’, Stan will hurt anyone who dare stands in Richie’s way. Richie was like a little brother, even though he was only a few months older. It didn’t matter to him. He needed Richie to be happy, healthy. And he just wished for once Richie would allow himself to be vulnerable to his friends so he would talk about his feelings; so he talked what he was most afraid of; talk about the events of what happened a couple of years ago. He never spoke of it, whereas everyone else did. 

Richard Tozier—the most happiest and carefree boy to ever run this world. Stan saw different. He was carefree, but he was unhappy. He was on the post of depression. He was starving himself on purpose. He wasn’t even drinking enough water throughout the day. Was he _trying_ to kill himself? Was he trying to kill himself as slowly and as painfully as possible? _Why_ was he doing this to himself? Stan would have asked these out loud, but he hadn’t the heart. All he wanted right now was for Richie to tell him why. Then he would hold the smaller one close, and promise to be there for him. He needs to be, and he he will be. 

“Can you sit down? You’re scary like that.” 

Stan rolled his eyes at Richie’s attempt to joke lightly, but obeyed Richie’s timid request. Small, defenceless, timid Richie. That’s a phrase Stan would never hear of again unless Richie continues to be like this; difficult and bad with feelings. 

Once Stan was seated, Richie let his legs down and they both, again, sat in another uncomfortable silence. It made Stan so uncomfortable that he considered postponing this little talk after dinner. However, the thought of eating dinner in a tense silence unnerved him even more. It was now or never. 

“I didn’t want you guys to worry,” Richie said finally, just above a whisper. The shaking was back, yet Stan didn’t want to hold Richie just yet. He needed Richie to break, otherwise he would never get through to the boy. “Especially Beverly. God, what will I tell her—?”

“Hey,” Stan said sternly and Richie shut his mouth. What a rare occurrence. “That’s the present. Focus on now—right now, Richie.”

Richie nodded and took a deep, stuttering breath. “Um ... I ...”

Stan’s eyes widened when a tear slipped past Richie’s eye. He furiously wiped it clean, but upon closing his eyes, it made the flow worse. A small sob made its way from his throat, and again, Stan wanted to so desperately hold him, but he couldn’t allow himself to. His glasses still lay discarded on the floor, and Stan was wondering whether to offer them to him. After all, Richie is as blind as a bat, but the tears told that it would not be a good idea. Richie didn't need any pride for hiding his tears. 

 _“I don’t know, Stan!”_ he cried out. He wasn’t loud, but it was sudden enough to make Stan jump and for his heart to pound against his chest. “I-it happened that summer. I-I, just ... I felt like giving up. I didn’t want to be here anymore. And I tried, I did, but I was too cowardly to do it. Because I knew it would hurt, even downing a load of pills would churn my insides, and suffocating myself was no option either. I was ... _I was scared..._ ”

Stan understood—he really did. After the event, he had thought that maybe everything would be better if he just left. But he couldn’t leave his friends. Or his parents. God, his parents would have been devastated. His friends were his ride or die. He couldn’t leave. And he got better. After a year, all of them seemed to forget ... but they missed the signs. Silent torture engraved on the household of Tozier—the bearings Richie wore and the fake smile, lame, forced jokes he had ever said during the past two years ... had this boy, Richie Tozier of all, been suffering the most? Right under their noses ... and they hadn’t even noticed...

“And ... and for the past two years I’ve been trying to ... it’s sick, _I can’t—_ "

“You can,” Stan said, now more gently. It was so gentle that even Stan surprised himself, but he carried on: “You can, Richie. Talk to me, okay? I’m here, and I’m listening to you.”  

Richie nodded and again wiped away his tears that were seemingly never ending. With a slow, deep breath, he continued. “I’ve been slowly starving myself. I’ve tried to dehydrate myself, but last year I got so sick. That’s why I wasn’t out.”

“Shit...” Stan remembered that summer. Richie had been off for a good two weeks. Though he enjoyed the peace, and everyone kept on joking around, saying how much more peaceful it was without Richie being there, they all secretly wanted him back. Richie kept them sane, it seemed, quite ironically. Richie had told them that he was going on a business trip with his parents, which seemed odd at first since Mr. Tozier never took his son or wife anywhere on any of his business trips, but they turned a blind eye to it. 

“Those whole two weeks I could barley eat as it was, but when I did, I felt so much better, I really did. Then finally, I was alright again. But, I continued to do it. If not only to torture myself, because I deserve it, but to kill myself.”

Stan’s breath hitched, and nausea settled over him. It seemed too surreal. 

“And ... and ... _dammit,_ Stanley! Why did you save me?” Richie turned to face him. Brown eyes glared into his own, tears still overflowing, the boy no longer caring. “I was happy. I could f-feel it! It was gonna take me, but you had to find me. _God dammit, Stan!_ ” 

Stan couldn’t take it anymore. He reached over and brought Richie down to his chest. The smaller weakly pushed at him until he gave up. He sobbed his little heart out, and Stan tried his best not to let his own tears fall. But he couldn’t help it. More comfortably, he sat back and guided Richie so the younger was in his lap, head against his chest while he cried, small legs curled up and arms bunched up to his own chest. Stan had one hand holding Richie head, running his fingers through his curls and the other around his back to his upper arm. He gently laid his cheek against the crown of Richie’s head, rocking them slightly and letting his own tears fall. 

Listening to Richie’s broken sobs tore at his chest. He still couldn’t believe that it took him a whole two years to notice anything was even up. The way Richie’s grades were slipping, which was most unusual—he was by far the most intelligent in their group with his perfect A’s. Yet, Stan remembered one Maths test that Richie had gone from an outstanding A to a C. Not that C was bad, but for Richie, it sucked. Of course, Stan was more happy with his B+ grade to notice. He didn’t notice the way their Maths teacher had pulled Richie to the side, her eyebrow created with worry, most likely asking him if there was any trouble at home and if he was alright. 

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay...” Stan found himself hushing Richie's cries of heartache. It seemed to do the trick because after a good five minutes or more, Richie’s quiet, muffled sobs became soft, hitched breathing. 

Another ten minutes went past and Stan could feel the boy within his arms fall limp. 

“Richie, stay awake,” he mumbled, pressing a tender kiss to his hair. Richie mumbled something that was not heard by Stan, and before he could ask what he had said, Mrs. Uris came in, along with Stan’s father. When had he gotten home?

“Hi, Papa,” greeted Stan. Richie tensed, causing Stan to hold him tighter. 

“Hey, Champ,” said Mr. Uris. He took a small glance at Richie and smiled warmly. “We’ll be out until ten. Richie can stay.”

“Thank you,” Stan smiled warmly.  

Mrs. Uris came over and placed a kiss not only on Stan’s forehead, but did the same to Richie. 

“You eat and get some rest,” she said to Richie. 

Richie sniffled and nodded, a small, genuine smile gracing his lips. 

“That’s including you, Stanley,” she said before walking towards the front of the house.

“Have fun!” called Stan.

“We will, Stanley,” Mr. Uris said and off they went.  

Once the door closed, they sat there for a little while longer until Stan was reminded of dinner. 

“Hey, Richie?” 

“Mm?” Richie moaned, snuggling further into Stan.  

“Can you eat something for me?”

Stan didn’t know whether he had asked the right question. He may understand the feeling of not wanting to be in the world any longer, though that has past, he could never understand starving oneself. He didn’t want to upset Richie, but he also needed and wanted him to eat.

“Yeah...” croaked Richie. 

Slowly, they untangled from each-other and Stan reached for Richie’s glasses, placing them on his face.  

“Thanks,” mumbled Richie. 

He followed Stan to the kitchen like a lost puppy. Stan was greeted with the lovely smell of dinner, seeing that his mother had already cleaned everything up. He went into the dining area and found on the small, four-person table that two dishes of chicken and rice (with that amazing sauce him and Richie have always loved) had been laid out opposite one another. He looked back at Richie and saw he too was eyeing hungrily at Mrs. Uris’ made dish. 

“C’mon, Richie.” 

Richie followed suit and sat down opposite Stan. For a little while whilst Stan ate, Richie stared at his food. Stan didn’t want to push him. He would let Richie take his own time. He could tell Richie wanted to so desperately eat, but the voices inside of the smaller boy’s mind forbid him from even picking up a fork. So Stan waited patiently. He was halfway through when Richie mustered up the courage to pick up his fork.

 _Go on Richie_ , Stan thought, trying not to watch. _You can do it._

Slowly, Richie picked up some chicken, which was most likely turning cold by now and placed it in his mouth. Stan couldn’t help but smile upon seeing Richie’s posture visibly relax more into himself. It was a slow process for Richie to eat it all, but within the hour, he had managed almost the whole plate of food. 

“Full?” Stan asked. 

Richie nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Stan let out a small chuckle. 

“For not eating it all,” said Richie. 

Stan laughed again. “Rich, it doesn’t matter. I’m just so happy you’ve eaten ... so so happy.”  

Richie smiled.

They both got up together and cleared away. Soon enough, the Uris’ dining room and kitchen were as good as new. Richie even made sure to put things in order for Stan’s sake, and Stan would never admit it, but he would love to see this side of Richie more. Of course, everyone preferred the other, old Richie, but despite the sadness that washed over the smaller one, his secret gentle and quiet nature was also a blessing. 

“Do you want some hot chocolate?” asked Stan when he had dried the last dish and put it away.

“Just the way I like it?” Richie said in a smug voice. 

Ah, the old Richie was coming back. 

Stan smiled, looking down. “Just the way you like it—put something on the T.V.” 

Richie nodded and left the kitchen.

Stan was again left to his own thoughts as he boiled some water. 

It mustn’t be that easy for someone to act like their normal selves again. Sure, he had a desolated aura surrounding his entire body—even his posture wasn’t straight—but he was coming about. He doesn’t know why, but Stan saw that as a bad thing. Richie was trying to be his normal self again, but on the inside he was still that powerless, ill-minded boy about a good hour ago. And Stan had to fix that. He would have no choice but to share this with the others. First of all, he was going to confirm with Richie, because he knew the boy wouldn’t be able to tell their friends without a full-on anxiety meltdown again. It would be humiliating (to Richie) and downright traumatising to witness. If Stan was stunned by it, God only knows what Bill and Beverly are going to think when seeing their friend crying. A friend that never, _ever_ cries in front of others. 

As Stan was about to walk into the room, he stopped at the door. It was open, but he listened. On the television showed the screen of Loony Tunes. Not only that, but Stan watched and listened (the sofa back faced the door, meaning Richie couldn’t see Stan) as Richie mumbled out the lines of the characters whilst they had said it themselves. Stan didn’t know what it meant, but whatever it was, it sounded as if Richie had rehearsed these lines over and over again.

“You can come in, Stanley,” Richie said without even looking back.  

Stan awkwardly made his way in and sat on the right of Richie. They both looked to the screen as Stan placed their mugs down on the coffee table to let them cool off. On the screen were Bugs Bunny and Sylvester the Cat. They were talking about something, and it showed Bugs ready to give what looked like a candle stick—but as it was cartoon, some sort of grenade—to Sylvester. As he did this, both Bugs and Richie said:

_“No, but I bet you could! Here’s a pen! Knock yourself out!”_

Stan was about to comment when Richie said another line, this time in sync with Sylvester. 

_“S’thay! I’ve alwaysh wanted to direct and write.”_

Richie got Sylvester’s God-awful lisp and voice so accurately, Stan had to double take whether Richie wasn’t just mouthing the lines or not. And he wasn’t. His Voices and accents were improving every single day, not that the Losers likes to tell Richie that. Maybe they should start—it would make Richie happier. 

“How do you know the lines?” questioned Stan curiously.

Richie grinned and chuckled lightly. He looked so tired. Stan wanted him to be wrapped up in his arms in bed, just to let Richie know he was protected and safe within the arms of Stanley Uris. 

“Momma and Dad used to love watching Loony Tunes.” At this he gulped, as if he were trying not to cry. This time, Stan did give a little comfort straight away by placing a hand on Richie’s too-small shoulder and giving him a light squeeze. “I thought if I learned the episodes off-by-heart then they would maybe be proud of something I did. Maybe even encourage it when I started doing Voices. Maybe I was hoping they’d at least love me for something that I did for them. But, what do you expect? They didn’t take any notice...” 

“Oh, Richie...” Stan sighed. He took both of his hands and turned Richie, both hands on his soft, freckled cheeks. Tears were again layered within those soft, doe-like eyes, now behind glasses—did he ever mention how cute Richie was?—and wiped any tear that dare escape those eyes of his. “You know what? I think your Voices are great, and you’re improving tremendously.” 

“Really?” Richie chocked our a laugh. 

“Yes, you doofus,” Stan scoffed light-heartedly. He brought Richie in for another hug. “We’ll help you Richie. I promise.” 

“You promise you’ll stay with me forever?” Richie said, his question almost pleading.

Stan nodded, eyes focused on the show in front. “Yeah. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> bit of a sad one, but i love angst and hurt with fluff and comfort. my favourite type of stories x3


End file.
